Scars
by TrivialQueen
Summary: A collection of one shots revolving around past, present, and future hurts and healing of various characters and couples from 'The Hour'. Featuring (but not limited to): Bel/Freddie, Lix/Randall, McCain, Mrs. Kish.
1. Scars, Bel and Freddie

Scars

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Disclaimer: If I owned _The Hour_ it would still be continuing on in some form other than fanfiction. But, alas, as it has been cancelled it means that I, indeed, own nothing.

Summary: That scar is just another part of Daddy, a special part that no one else has. Alexander has checked. Bel/Freddie, Future fic - 1965.

_Author's Note: There are a multitude of directions to take stories about _The Hour_ given how the series ended (absolute failure of justice that the show was cancelled). This piece is just a brief shot at what I would like to imagine happened after Freddie was found. Rather than making you deduce it here is some background for this work: Freddie did not die from his wounds, he and Camille divorce and Freddie and Bel marry after he is fully healed (1960). In 1962 they welcome their first child, Alexander Rowley Lyon (Bel continues to produce). In 1965 when this takes place, Bel and Freddie have been married for five years and welcome their second child, Eloise "Ellie" Alexis Lyon._

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Most of the scars are easy to cover. Suits hide so many scars – where the pin in his shoulder went, the screws in his knee, the pucker across his abdomen where they had to sew his insides back together after his fractured ribs tore at linings and caused massive bleeding. The limp when he walks (especially when it's cold) is unnoticed when he sits behind a desk for the broadcast or stands in one place for an interview. Freddie Lyons looks almost exactly the way he did before. Before he set foot in _El Paradis_, before he met Kiki and Rosa, before they exposed so much more than scandal and vice. He looks _almost_ exactly the same.

The scar is faint, nearly invisible on television. The partial outline of a man's square ring is forever faintly pink, sitting along the cheekbone a little below the outside corner of his right eye, a constant reminder of what that man tried to do and of what Freddie did do. Freddie wears the thing proudly, refuses to cover it when he goes on the air. It is a scar he earned and a story he tells and he probably thinks it makes him look dashing too.

Even now Bel finds she still gets ill at the sight of it. Not that it makes him any less attractive but because it reminds her exactly how _close_ she came to losing him. How close he came to dying just when they found each other again – honestly and for real. Alexander's toddler's fingers trace over the area slowly, following the lines as exactly as a bairn of three can. To him it's the way he tells it's Daddy who's holding him - in case the sound of his voice and the smell of his skin wasn't enough. It's reassuring to him. That scar is just another part of Daddy, a special part that no one else has. Alexander has checked. She caught her son investigating his Papa Randall's face with small fingers and a serious expression a few months ago. Mr. Brown, bless the man, did not seem to mind. He, in fact, returned Alexander's questioning gaze with a knowing one.

"Certain it's me, Little chap?" Freddie asks as his son's fingers slide back and forth over the mark. After a third trace Alexander nods and wraps his arms around his father's neck happily.

"Daddy!" Freddie shifts his grip slightly; their son is now big enough to bother his pinned shoulder and bad elbow. Bel can tell this by the small motions but she can also tell the Freddie will never turn down holding his boy, pain or no. They've come so far since that scar. That fact is the only thing that can settle her stomach when the horrors get to be too much for her. Freddie didn't die, he came back to her. He came back to her and they are facing this world together – as they should be. They've come so far. Together. And they have farther still to go.

The doctor's just confirmed what she already knew.

She's a bit over a month gone again.


	2. Quilts, Lix and Randall

Scars

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Disclaimer: If I owned The Hour it would still be continuing on in some form other than fanfiction. But, alas, as it has been cancelled it means that I, indeed, own nothing.

Summary: In time she'd begun to repair that part of her heart, filling it with stitches of time and scraps – other men that didn't quit fit well enough to patch the hole but at least kept the wind from whistling through. Lix/ Randall, Future fic = 1965.

_Author's Note: Also set in 1965 and the same universe as the pervious chapters. Lix/Randall are my Alpha OTP._

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The heart is like a quilt, time the stitches that hold it together. Some pieces don't go together at all, others are perfectly aesthetically pleasing. Large pieces, small pieces. Pieces so small they are barely visible between the other fabrics but they are still there. Parts have been ripped and mended, other places there are holes. Sophia is a hole in her heart that will never be mended. It gapes still, although the stitches of time have made the edges slightly less raw. Randall's returned pulled a few of those stitches, opening up what parts of the hole that hand been mended to new hurt. Thankfully, this time, he stayed long enough to help her sew back up what she could of that hole. There was a hole in her quilt, one that would never be patched or mended but that hole did not define her entire quilt, there were other pieces, she learned, that were important too and required attention as well.

Randall's piece in her quilt had started small and then grown. It had grown and grown until it had nearly taken over her quilt – until everything was him. Then it was ripped to shreds – she was ripped to shreds. In time she'd begun to repair that part of her heart, filling it with stitches of time and scraps – other men that didn't quit fit well enough to patch the hole but at least kept the wind from whistling through. It was sloppy and ugly, and she wasn't always fond of it but each little piece filling the hole he left in her served their purpose at the time. A piece of Freddie was in that place – a larger swath of him was elsewhere in her quilt (a place of friendship, of family, of him and Bel and their little one), but there is still a small piece of him here, trying to fill (and for a brief moment filling) the hole that once was Randall. He was back now, in her life, and not as slowly as she portrayed to the outside world filling the hole he left perfectly. Each stitch was as tight and straight as anything else he did, the fabric matching perfectly.

Pieces had been added since Randall left and she lost Sofia, but with Randall back those old pieces seemed new and new pieces were added a bit more joyously. Lonely. She'd been lonely without him though she never allowed herself to use such a depressing word. He was seven years back and it was as if time had passed properly for once. It neither marched nor flew but was greeted each day, and each year with a little more optimism, love, and a near lethal amount of double-barreled sass.

The first piece added to her quilt with Randall's help was little Grace Madden. Sweet Gracie, a little tintype of her mother (blessedly, Hector for all his handsome would not make a very good little girl). It had hurt at first, holding the small girl; even though she looked different, she felt exactly the same as her Sofia. He didn't make it hurt less but he did make it hurt different after she'd handed the wee girl back to her proud father and the office had gone home to their lives, their wives, their husbands, and their homes. Hurting is different when you have someone to share it with – someone who knows – who aches as much as you. It's so hard to keep walls up and everyone outside the gate when everything crumbles around – inside – of you. Crying in the ladies loo was cramped and cold. Randall's office was much better for all forms of emotional trauma. They sat side by side on his settee and he held her while she cried. Not tightly - not enough to smother, but tight enough to hold her together while she fell apart.

Alexander Lyon began calling Randall "Papa" early. She liked to tease him that it was because he looked so old that the boy probably did think Randall was his grandfather. It softened things a bit. That night she held him on the sofa while he fell apart. "Nana 'ix" came soon after. The honor hurt so much. It didn't matter that the young Lyon looked nothing like either she or Randall with his soft blonde curls and blue, blue eyes. He was the right age. Bel, Freddie, Little Alexander – this was the family Sofia should have had. It was the family that she and Randall should have had - would have had in a different time, in a different place.

Bel and Freddie were her family. Alexander and Randall, they were her family. Not as she would have planned it some days but she would never trade it – them – for the world. There was a hole in her quilt, one that would never be patched or mended but that hole did not define her entire quilt, there were other pieces, she learned, that were important too and required attention as well.


	3. Drums, Thomas and Mrs Kish

Scars

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Disclaimer: If I owned The Hour it would still be continuing on in some form other than fanfiction. But, alas, as it has been cancelled it means that I, indeed, own nothing.

Summary: "And did you leave a wife or a sweetheart behind, In some loyal heart is your memory enshrined, And though you died back in 1916, To that loyal heart you're forever nineteen"Thomas Kish/ Wife, 1957.

_Author's Note: Set in the same universe as all my pervious stories, though occurring concurrent with the events of the series. The song quoted here is _No Man's Land_. I also, unfortunately could not remember if Mrs. Kish was ever given a first name or what the name of their kids were – a son and daughter. Similarly I wasn't sure of when he died exactly, so I have taken some liberties._

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Helen Kish looked at her husband's grave, a sad smile on her features. The grass had finally started to peak up from under the dirt; it was as fine as feathers and a vivid green, contrasting with the dark muddy brown of the earth. At least it wasn't bald any more, less bare and raw. The earth was healing, faster than she was but there was hope for them both.

Thomas Alexander Kish  
Born September 1st, 1920 – April 28th, 1957  
Beloved Husband and Father

_And did you leave a wife or a sweetheart behind, In some loyal heart is your memory enshrined, And though you died back in 1916, To that loyal heart you're forever nineteen_

When they married she'd known what kind of work he was in. She had known what kind of life they would lead. She loved him so she accepted the risk. Fool she was, thinking that he would live – that she would be spared this pain.

"John looks more like you every day Thomas." She told the stone. "He misses you a great deal. We all do Thomas. You would be so proud of him, he's taken it upon himself to tell little Annie all about you. She…" Tears catching in her throat, "She's still too young Thomas, but…but she will know you. John…John and I will see to it."

_Or are you a stranger without even a name, forever enshrined behind some old glass pane, in an old photograph torn, tattered and stained, and faded to yellow in a brown leather frame_

"There are some days I am so mad at you Thomas Kish that I could just spit. You could have actually been a translator Thomas, we could have still had a nice life. You'd still be here with me. I'd still have a husband. _I'd still have a husband._" She dried her eyes and took a deep breath. Then another one.

"And then there are some days that I miss you so much that I ache. I cannot move, it burns in my bones, my joints, my skin. I can feel it roil in my stomach. I can scarcely get out of bed. And then I hear our children and I know that I must, it takes all my strength, all my power."

_Helen_. She can almost hear him, hear the way he would say her name when she was upset. She fell to her knees in the grass, tears coming once again.

"I can hear you, you know. Feel you as well, you're still with me, even in the darkest of my depression. I appreciate that you never left me, that you will never leave me. It's crazy, I know. You're gone, buried and gone. I do so love you. And I know. I know why you when, why you chose to do what you did. How important this was to you – your work, your country. I know. But thank you, thank you for not leaving me. It makes it easier, a little, knowing that you're still here."

_Did they beat the drums slowly?  
Did the play the fife lowly?  
Did they sound the death march as they lowered you down?  
Did the band play the last post and chorus?  
Did the pipes play the flowers of the forest?_

"Thomas." She said softly, her tears drying in the wind, "I love you." She thought she heard the wind reply,

_I love you too, Helen._


	4. Rings, Angus and Vera McCain

Scars

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Disclaimer: If I owned _The Hour_ it would still be continuing on in some form other than fanfiction. But, alas, as it has been cancelled it means that I, indeed, own nothing.

Summary:"Do…Did…Do…Do you love me… at all? Our daughters? Our family? Angus…please…Do you care for us at all?" Vera/McCain, Future fic – 1965.

_Author's Note: Also set in 1965 and the same universe as the pervious chapter. Angus McCain married Miss Vera Morland in 1959, Mrs. McCain gave birth to twin girls, Abigail and Emma, in 1961. Angus started his own consulting/campaign/ PR firm. I have no idea how this fictional situation would actually play out in real life but I wanted the happiest ending I could give everyone, even though McCain drove me insane at times... _

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She'd known. For a while really. Deep down she'd known for a long time. Probably since before the wedding. She'd never admit it to herself, refused to, wouldn't think the word. People talked in their sleep all the time. They would say all kinds of things, some stupid, most meaningless. And it was normal for men to have friends. Last week he'd mutter things about Dogs, and cars, and dinner mints. So the constant repeat of Adam could mean anything, be any one. She refused to think else. He was a good man – kind to her, came home on time for dinner except for Thursdays when he would go to the club. He gave her the girls. He couldn't be…like that when he'd given her the twins. Abigail and Emma were beautiful and darling and he loved them both so much. He had to love her.

But the picture.

She thought she was being useful, helpful, bringing receipts into his office. She did not intend to snoop through his things. The picture of their daughters on his desk smiled at her as she opened the top left draw where he kept the account book. And that's when she found the photo. It was half hidden under some papers that she accidently picked up when she took his ledger. It was a photo of a young man, his face vaguely familiar. He was handsome, dark haired and dark eyed and smiling affectionately at the camera. 'Love You, Adam' the back said, ink faded and blotchy as if it'd been wet and dried.

"Angus." She began, twisting and untwisting the duvet in her hands. The girls were abed, they'd had a drink and watched the evening news, and now they were getting ready for bed. Her hair was already brushed out and her night dress on. Angus was in the en suite brushing his teeth, already in his vest and linen shorts.

"Yes, Dear?" he replied as he rinsed his mouth.

"I…I have something to talk to you … ask you about." _Deep breaths Vera. Deep breaths._

Angus entered their bedroom and crawled into bed, his face concerned.

"Yes, Vera, Dear?" He asked, reaching out to take her hand. She pulled away. She couldn't help herself. She could see the hurt in his eyes.

"I..I um put some receipts in your ledger, birthday presents for the girls, for your budgeting." She began. He nodded a little. "And I found a, um, well a photo. Who, who is Adam?" Her husband's face blanched.

"A friend. Adam was a very dear friend of mine." Her face was hot, burning hot but she plunged ahead. _In for a penny_…

"You talk in your sleep." If it was possible her husband got paler.

"I do? What do I say?" His voice was a little too high to be absolutely calm.

_Oh God, it's true. It's true, why would he be on edge if he … he wasn't…_

"Angus. Please, if you _care_ for me at all, please just tell me the truth. I love you, please, be honest with me." Her husband put his face in his hands, pushing his glasses atop his head. The silence between them was painful. She just wanted to tell him to forget about it, to turn out the lights, curl up, and fall asleep.

"Angus." She tried again, quietly, reaching for his shoulder. "You loved him." It was his turn to pull away.

He said nothing. Just kept his face in his hands.

For a minute. For two minutes. She looked away, fiddling with her wedding set. She'd loved the ring the moment she saw it, three flowers in rose gold, diamonds in the center of each, larger in the center, two smaller on the side. The band he gave her that following September was the same rose gold, engraved with small flowers and vines. Slowly she began to take the bands off. She used to hate to remove it but now she felt as if she must.

It wasn't until the rings were in her palm did she start to cry. He was crying as well, she could hear his tears.

"Do…Did…Do…Do you love me… at all? Our daughters? Our family? Angus…please…Do you care for us at all?" she couldn't look at him, all she could do was stare at her hands, the rings. She felt the bed move, his hand reaching out. She tried to pull away but he was too quick, his hand too long and strong. He squeezed her hand, not hard, but enough to make her look up. His eyes were red rimmed, glasses still perched atop his head. He had to squint to see her; she used to tease him about this, but now was not the time for levity.

"I love our daughters. I love our girls VERY much; Abby and Em are my life. Please. Please never doubt that again." His voice was horse and his gaze sincere. "They are the single greatest blessing to have ever entered my life." A pause. He squeezed her hand again and then let her go, his hands returning to his lap.

"I care for you, I care a great deal. You are the mother of my children and more importantly you are a friend. Charming, supportive, witty. You're a lovely, wonderful woman and I do care for you very, very much." He took a deep breath, then another. She could feel him thinking of the next thing to say.

"I've tried to love you the way a husband should love their wife – to love you in _that way_ to want you in _that way_…but, but I …I've never felt…"

She felt dizzy as her entire world shook and crumbled to the ground. She'd married a homosexual – he was there sitting on the other side of the bed, the bed they'd shared for six years now. Her children were half queer.

He never loved her.

They were both crying, heavily, silently. Tears streaking down their faces as they sat side by side on the mattress.

"If," He began after several shaking breaths, "If you wish to divorce me, I … I understand, truly. And I am sorry, sincerely. I will let you go without a legal fight with as much of what I have as you would like, I have but two requests if you desire we end our union." He looked up at her, eyes blood shot, cheeks glistening with tears. "I would ask for your discursion as to why we chose to end our marriage, as selfish as that sounds. And I beg of you, my daughters, please let me have a place in their lives." He added in a whisper. "Please."

She closed her eyes. A strange calm came over her. Her husband was a homosexual. He'd lied to her about that. Yet in every other way he had been – he still was – a marvelous husband. He was kind and supportive of her – even opting to work from home the first few days after the twins were born, before they could hire an au pair to watch them. She remembered him, as bleary-eyed as her pacing with one of their crying daughters as she paced with the other until both were quiet, dry, and fed. He listened to her when she spoke of the children and they came to parenting decisions together. No one knew he quite like he did. It was something she had noticed when they had been dating, it was what had put her at ease with him. Angus was a perceptive man, even before their marriage he knew when she was tired, upset, uncomfortable, and all the other emotions other people didn't seem to notice her having. He listened to her answers after he asked what was on her mind. He actually listened to her.

They made each other laugh. He made her happy.

He kept her financially safe, sound, secure…yes the '60s might be a new era of modernity but she would never survive as a single mother. Without Angus she could not provide for her daughters. He took care of the all the business – the taxes, the money, bills, the girls savings accounts and college funds. He never told her of any problems, never gave her a reason to worry. Yes, her husband was a homosexual and he had lied to her about that. But Vera would never find another man quite like Angus ever again.

"No." she said quietly, opening her eyes to look at him again. He'd still not moved his spectacles from the top of his head. Instead he was squinting at her to see, looking as if he was trying to read the fine print. Reaching up she brought his glasses down onto his nose again. He would have a terrible headache if he kept them off too long. He flinched.

"No?"

"I won't divorce you." She said, her voice becoming more firm and confident as she continued. "I am a little hurt that you do not love me the way I love you but I do know that you care for me and most importantly that you love our daughters. You're a good husband Angus, a better one I am not sure I can find. You're my friend as well and you make me very happy. I just…" She took his hand in hers. "All I ask is that from now on you are honest with me, about everything. Please, just tell me things; I will care less if you tell me first. Okay?"

In that moment a tempest of emotions wailed through his oceanic eyes: disbelief, relief, sadness, and hope. He pulls her into his arms and kisses the top of her head, her temple, her forehead. He holds her close and she can feel tears falling into her hair.

"Thank you." He whispers. "Thank you, thank you, thank you." Over and over again. She's crying too, clinging to his shoulders, bunching his vest in her hands. They cry for a long time. With no more tears to shed, Angus pulled back slowly and reached for her wedding band, sitting in the mess of the duvet. He took her hand and slipped the rings back on her finger before kissing her hand, exactly as he had on their wedding day six years ago.

"Thank you." Was all he could say.


	5. Trees, Sissy and Sey

Scars

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Disclaimer: If I owned The Hour it would still be continuing on in some form other than fanfiction. But, alas, as it has been cancelled it means that I, indeed, own nothing.

Summary:"Oh, Sweetie. They asked you about the wrong family." His mother whispered. "There are two kinds of families. There are families who are related... There are also families who are families not necessarily because they are related by blood but because they love one another." Sissy/Sey, Future fic – 1970.

_Author's Note: Set in the same universe as all my pervious stories. Sissy and Sey married in 1958, and as was alluded to in dialogue between Sissy and Isaac neither the Coopers nor the Olas were happy that their children married. That does not stop Sissy and Sey from loving one another and having two children, Cooper, born in 1960 and Michael born in 1963._

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Cooper Ola was ten when he realized that none of his family was biologically related to him. Well, Mummy, Dad, and Michael were, of course, but none of the rest. Not Auntie Bel, Uncle Freddie or Alex and Ellie. Neither were Aunt Marnie, Uncle Randall, or Papa Isaac.

The realization had been prompted easily enough in history class they were learning about their ancestors and their homework was to fill out a family tree. He'd started it easy enough. Mummy's name was Sissy and Dad was Sey and Michael was born in 1963. Auntie Bel was Mummy's sister and Uncle Freddie her husband, which made Alex and Ellie cousins. Except Alex and Ellie called Aunt Lix Nana. Cooper was fairly certain that Aunt Lix could be both Alex and Ellie's Nana and his Aunt. Papa Isaac as the same age as Mummy come to think of things. No one could be the same age as their Papa. Cooper's head hurt all the rest of lessons.

After dinner Dad cleared the table and Cooper and Michael sat down to do their homework. Mum made them. She'd sit there with then, reading or knitting, occasionally helping until their work was finished.

"Mum, I need some help." Cooper began, handing his mother his ancestry assignment. Carefully she read over the sheet. At first she looked happy but her smile faded.

"Oh, Sweetie. They asked you about the wrong family." His mother whispered. "Michael, Cooper, I need to explain something to you." Cooper stared at his mother and then back at his family tree.

"What do you mean, wrong family, Mummy?" Cooper asked. "Papa Isaac and Auntie Bel - you always call them our family." There was a long moment before Mum explained.

"There are two kinds of families, Cooper, Michael. There are families who are related – you, me, your brother, your father – we are a family by relation – by blood. There are also families who are families not necessarily because they are related by blood but because they love one another." Mum looked very carefully at Michael and him, making sure they both understood, before she continued. "Sometimes these families are the same – people who are related by blood who also love one another – like you and your brother, your father and I – we are a family, we are related and we love one another. But sometimes the family that you are related by blood to is not the family that loves you." Dad came in from the kitchen and sat down in the chair he occupied during dinner. He and Mum shared a serious look. Mum picked up his Family Tree assignment again.

"Papa Isaac isn't really my father, even though we tease him about being your grandpapa. My father's real name is Johnathan. We call Isaac your Papa because he offered to walk me down the aisle at my wedding to your father. My Father – Johnathan – didn't want to. He didn't approve of my marriage to your father because your Father is Nigerian and not English. Isaac was more supportive of me than my father. He cares for me and your father more than the man I am related to by blood. Does that make sense?"

"Is this how Aunt Lix and Uncle Randall is my Aunt and Uncle but Alexander and Ellie's Nana and Papa?"

"Exactly!" Dad said, he sounded proud. He liked it when his father had that tone in his voice, it make him feel smart. "You see Auntie Lix is like an Aunt to your mother but she is like a mother to Bel. Bel is like a sister to your mother. None of us are related biologically but we all love one another just the same."

"The most important thing is that a family loves one another, blood relationship doesn't matter." His mother said firmly. Cooper understood and was happy that he had a family that loved one another, but something still weighed on his mind:

"So how am I supposed to fill out this family tree?"


End file.
